


Let The Rain Pour

by Adelinea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Childhood, Family, Holmes Brothers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adelinea/pseuds/Adelinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re the rain, the London rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let The Rain Pour

You stare at the people passing on the pavement, watching the way they avoid your wandering eyes and you start to wonder, why do they do that? What makes you so different from them that they cannot approach you? Strings of joyous Christmas lights are on every shop, reflecting off the snow as children your age throw snowballs at each other on the sidewalk with their mothers and fathers laughing to the side.

 

You continue walking.

 

As you walk, you notice more things. That when someone actually looks you in the eyes, they are looking at you with one of three things: pity, fright, or disgust. They seem to be asking you questions as well. Where’s your coat? Where is your Mummy and Papa? Why do you look as if you haven’t had a proper haircut in months?

 

Why are you alone?

 

A warm, gloved hand on your shoulder and you turn around to look into eyes that mirror your own. Your face breaks into a joyful smile and shouting his name, you jump up to wrap your lanky arms around your older brother’s neck.

 

“Oomph, Sherlock!” He says with an annoyed tone, but you disregard it because you know he’s smiling and you feel his arms wrap around you in return.

 

Burying your cold face into his neck, you and your sibling linger there, on the side of the street as the world feels just a tad brighter than before.

 

“Let’s go home.” Your older brother whispers, and shifts you around so you’re sitting on his forearm and he’s carrying you as if you were three and not six.

 

His strong arms and warm coat are all you’re thinking about this Christmas Eve, and the questions that formed in your smart little brain disappear. He walks you down to a sleek, black car and you look proudly at it, your brother has worked extra hard to get to his position. And though you have no idea what it is, you know that it’s important and your brother’s important just by that sleek, black car.

 

He sets you gently on the soft leather as your eyelids begin to feel heavy and he clamors in after, taking the seat right next to you. Once he’s in, you lay down with your head in his lap because you love your brother and he’s the only one you’ve got left.

 

“I’m tired.” You murmur softly.

 

He chuckles and says while stroking your black curls, “Go to sleep, I’ll wake you when we get home.”

 

You sniffle a bit from the leftover cold but eventually the heat of the car and the soothing head touches your brother is giving you lets you drift off into unconsciousness.

 

Before you know it, your brother is carefully picking you up and carrying you to the front door of your house. You’re still tired so you pretend to be asleep as he holds you and walks into the house.

 

He kisses your forehead and says softly, “Sherlock, we’re home. It’s time for supper.”

 

You mutter something incoherently and lift your arms to wrap around his neck again and hold tightly on. Without opening your eyes, you know that he’s smiling and you feel light touches around your stomach and you begin to smile too. And suddenly you’re eyes are open and you’re full out laughing because your big brother is tickling you mercilessly. You’re squirming and trying to push him away but he’s  laughing too, with bright eyes. And then you realize that you haven’t seen those bright eyes in a while. You haven’t seen him smile that big since last week. And then you realize another thing. Mummy and Papa aren’t here.

 

He stops tickling you and you breathe deep breaths with a lingering smile, trying to get rid of the hiccups.

 

He looks at you and you look at him and he seems to know what you’re going to ask.

 

“Mycroft, where’s Mummy and Papa?”

 

His bright eyes fade and yours get wider. Why was Mycroft looking sad again? Had you said something wrong?

 

“Let’s get some supper.” Is all he says and then he’s carrying you into the kitchen without looking you in the eyes.

 

Another realization hits.

 

Mummy and Papa aren’t coming home, are they?

 

\--

 

Fast forward ten years and you realize just how much responsibility your older brother had on his shoulders. He was your age when your parents died, and how he managed to take care of you and secure a job higher on the political ladder than ever seemed possible for a teenager was beyond you. Mycroft was sixteen when you were six and he had already finished his studies at Oxford and had people working under him in the government.

 

Your brother is amazing.

 

You think that as you poke the needle into your arm, feeling the exhilaration course through your veins and the drug is also amazing to you. You lie motionless on the floor, glassy eyed with a loopy grin on your face, your mind racing at a million kilometers an hour, thinking everything and nothing at the same time.

 

He finds you like that a couple hours later, the needle just a few centimeters from your hand and he gets that sad look on his face though you don’t see it because you’re still a bit dazed from the drug.

 

You laugh hysterically when he picks you up and you can’t stop. You remember that day all those years ago, that Christmas Eve when he tickled you until you cried when he was carrying you in the exact same position he was carrying you now.

 

You don’t know how or why you remembered that particular moment, but you do. You giggle as he sets you delicately on your bed.

 

His breaths are deep and there’s an expression on his face you can’t quite place. Then that expression melts away and it becomes replaced with wrenched up pain. You see that emotion plastered in the bags under his eyes and the creases in his face that make him look much older than twenty six.

 

Though you smile and remember the way he used to bring you out for ice cream during hot summer days and you say, “I love you, Mycroft.”

 

He sighs and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead but doesn’t say anything.

 

He walks out of your room and closes the door with a soft click.

 

You fall asleep soon afterwards, only to be woken up hours later with a pounding headache and a strange man claiming to be a doctor sitting in your room, telling you about rehab and all that shite.

 

You scowl and don’t remember anything of the previous night.

 

\--

 

Now _you’re_ the one that’s twenty six and you still marvel at your brother’s ability. You can’t do half the things he could when he turned that age.

 

You’ve been clean for four years now and you remember that as you walk down St. Bart’s long hallways, looking for a spare lab to work in. You stop in Lab 3 and are satisfied with the assortment of chemicals and the microscope is bearable.

 

You and your brother have drifted apart after you started using cocaine, you shouting and screaming at him that you could do anything you wanted and that he wasn’t the boss of you. He wasn’t and couldn’t ever be Mum or Papa.

 

You still wince at the memory of resorting to using the ‘Mum and Dad are dead’ card. In your defense, you were high and weren’t thinking. No. It was entirely your fault, there was no ‘in your defense’. Why? Because the way your brother hadn’t shouted back and had simply closed his eyes was more than you could take. His breathing became shallow and you had no idea that he had anxiety attacks. You had no idea because you were too busy snorting and injecting and finding increasingly more ways to get the cocaine in your blood stream.

 

Finally, when your brain registered that your brother had beads of sweat on his forehead and was clutching his chest, you moved forward only to have him rasp painfully out, “I can get my medication myself.”

 

You realized you had no idea who your brother was.

 

You wanted to change that. But you had already reached the point of no return.

 

You shake the memory from your brain and focus on conducting that experiment you have written down in your journal. You should really get a laptop, much more convenient.

 

Heavy footsteps approach you and you look up, meeting the surprised eyes of Michael Stamford. Looking at his nametag, you instantly deduce that he’s got a loving wife at home with one child and one on the way. He’s overweight and has wanted to come down on the scale for some time now, but he’s a happy fellow nonetheless.

 

“Can I help you?” You ask arrogantly.

 

“Yeah, this is my lab.” He says plainly and you instantly think that he could be tolerable.

 

“May I ask what you’re using it for?” You don’t move from your place at the microscope.

 

“Work.” Stamford’s tone has gone from questioning to annoyed.

 

“My apologies.” You say, gathering your things and moving for some unknown reason. Usually you would’ve stayed just to piss someone off but this time’s different and you don’t know why.

 

“Wait, how’d you get access to this side of the building? Students aren’t allowed here without a professor.” He stops you when you reach the door.

 

“I’m not a student.” And with that you walk swiftly out the door.

 

You find another open lab and you use that for the rest of the day.

 

However, the next day you’re back and there’s someone occupying the lab you used the previous day and you curse silently to yourself. Turning around to find another room, you meet Michael Stamford once again.

 

Before you know it, you’re making friends with the man. Friends. Actual friends. Meaning occasional lunch, greetings when you step into the building and him voluntarily telling you about his life. You don’t see the benefit until he offers to get you a spare lab for you to work in. You smile and thank him, very unlike your usual cold, self.

 

Having a friend makes you feel...good. And you decide to visit your older brother.

 

You walk into his study in that posh government building he works in and he looks up immediately. To your surprise, he smiles and congratulates you on being able to waltz past the security system. You scoff and say you’ve never done anything so easy in your life.

 

His smile grows wider as you walk up to embrace him. Your brother still has strong arms and he wraps them around you, saying that he’s missed you. You’ve missed him too, you just don’t say it. You haven’t seen each other in twenty eight months and you’re afraid that he’s going to cry, but you know he’s not.

 

Probably because you’re afraid that _you’re_ going to cry.

 

You try to stifle a sniffle that brings you back to when you were six and you tighten your arms around your big brother that has been with you all this time.

 

You feel his warmth and that just makes you hug him closer.

 

He’s the only one you’ve got left.

 

You’d better not screw this up.

 

So you say, “I love you, Mycroft.”

 

The last time you remember saying that was when you were ten. You don’t remember that time when you were sixteen.

 

You feel his smile against your hair and a kiss is pressed gently against your temple and he says, “I love you too, Sherlock.”

 

You’ve missed him. You really have.

 

\--

 

Another ten years and though your brother and you have made amends, Aunt Margaret had to come by and slice up that bond you two have with a sharp knife and cruel words. She had to come and visit just to speak about forbidden subjects and secrets that pulled on your heartstrings. But that’s another story for another time.

 

The end result is that you and Mycroft don’t speak as much as you did ten years ago.

 

You’re lost in thought as Mike steps into the lab accompanied by a man with a cane.

 

You know even before you look at him that he’s a veteran that got shot and his limp’s psychosomatic. You try to appear normal by asking for Mike’s phone. When the other man offers you his, you are taken aback (though you don’t show it). You send a text to Lestrade a lightning speed and your eyes flicker up and down the man without him knowing.

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” You ask, continuing to flit around your workspace.

 

“Afghanistan,” He looks confused, “sorry, how did you know?”

 

You smirk and out of the corner of your eye, you can see Stamford bracing himself for the stream of deductions you’re about to spout out.

 

And off you go, your mouth moving quicker than a hummingbird, flitting around from detail to detail, deduction to deduction.

 

Then you wait. Wait for that huff of anger and feet storming out with a slammed door.

 

But it doesn’t come.

 

That’s odd.

 

So begins your new life with Dr. John H. Watson.

 

\--

 

In the past ten years, you have gone through heartbreak, tremendous fights that shook the earth, and have come back from the dead. John Watson has stuck by you nonetheless and for that you love him.

 

Now, at forty six, you are starting to feel the after effects of cocaine and not eating regularly for all those years before. But your doctor is there to force you to eat and sleep now and all is well.

 

Mycroft is aging, though his position in the government hasn’t wavered the slightest.

 

You think to yourself that you should visit him more often but are interrupted by a kiss to your cheek as John hands you a cup of tea.

 

Smiling at your doctor, you tug him down to your sitting position by his hand as he starts to walk towards the sofa and give him a proper kiss.

 

He gives a muffled snort and you have to break your touch of affection because your smile is too big.

 

“Berk.” John says, running a hand through your still curly hair.

 

It’s gotten a few grey ones at your temple, and although you scowl at them every time you look in the mirror, John grins and says he loves that you’re aging like a normal person.

 

And because of that, he’s only letting you take cold cases that require no running, no chasing criminals around London, and no gun handling. You glared at him when he said that but John simply smiled and said that if you were good enough, he’d let you take an interesting case now and then.

 

Remembering that, you walk with your husband to the sofa was his original destination and sit together in the flat of 221B for some midnight telly.

 

Life is good.

 

\--

 

The next thirty years are amazing. You hadn’t expected to live this long and now you’re bee keeping in Sussex with John constantly screaming at you to ‘get your arse in side before you freeze to death’ though there isn’t a hint of frost ninety percent of the time.

 

John has a head full of white hair now, and he needs to wear thick glasses all the time. The only things that haven’t changed about him is his smile and his jumpers and the gold band on his finger that resembles your own.

 

You love him.

 

Your back aches and you remember that Mycroft is coming for supper like he does every Tuesday and you better prepare something to eat.

 

And like every Tuesday (with help from John of course), you and your husband bake a chicken to serve with fettuccini.

 

It was Lestrade’s favorite meal.

 

You make it because of Mycroft. You make Lestrade’s favorite because three months into your brother’s relationship with the DI, it became _his_ favorite. You make it because Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to when you put his husband in the ground eight years ago.

 

Sometimes you see that Mycroft still leaves with tears in his eyes as you and John watch him walk alone to the black car parked on the side of the road.

 

Sometimes _you_ still cry about Lestrade.

 

Sometimes John finds you and he starts getting teary eyed as well.

 

Sometimes you hold each other in remembrance.

 

Sometimes you visit the grave and leave flowers.

 

A few years later you visit the grave next to Lestrade’s and remember that night all those years ago when you were six and Mycroft tickled you until you cried.

 

You place flowers on his grave too.

 

Then you return to John and bury your head in his warm arms as he whispers soothing words in your ears and you can feel something wet on your head.

 

Your doctor’s voice is softer now, sometimes he needs to cough before he can speak. But somehow, he is still your strong doctor that walked into St. Bartholomew’s Hospital all those years ago with a cane.

 

\--

 

You wake up one morning in a hospital and there is a strange man sitting next to you.

 

He is smiling, but you can deduce that it’s a forced one.

 

He has a head full of white hair, a hideous cream jumper on and thick glasses perched on his slightly red nose. There’s a gold band on his left ring finger and you find out that _you’ve_ got a replica of it on your hand.

 

You squint your eyes and don’t know who this man is.

 

But you have deduced everything about him that you need to know.

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

\--

 

You wake up one morning in a hospital and looking around, you see no one.

 

You clasp your hands together in a way that only your body remembers but not your mind. You discover a simple gold band on your left ring finger.

 

You slip it off carefully out of curiosity and look on the inside.

 

Two initials.

 

J. W.

 

S. H.

 

\--

 

You wake up one morning and your eyes don’t want to open. There are three voices. Two of them are bickering good naturedly.

 

“Pay up, Mycroft.”

 

“What? Why?”

 

“You lost the bet.”

 

“Really? I seem to recall that _I w_ as the one who said two weeks, not you.”

 

“Oh stop lying and just pay up.”

 

“With what?”

 

“Anything you have.”

 

“Gregory, I don’t have anything but you.”

 

“Soppy sod.”

 

The sound of a kiss and then the third voice.

 

“Did you guys really bet on how long he’d live?”

 

One of the two voices.

 

“How long he’d live without _you._ ”

 

Finally, you force yourself to blink your eyes open.

 

You smile.

 

You’re home.

\--

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for sticking through to the end! It's very much appreciated.


End file.
